


Anthem

by amethystica



Category: The Idiot - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Genre: Dostoevsky, Drama, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Hurt/Comfort, dostoyevsky, the idiot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2169420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amethystica/pseuds/amethystica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When two frauds plot, hardly anything can go smoothly; a fraud will either plot against the partner, or end up surrendering to a different whim. Only, this whim might come a little too enchanting for the fraud. [Prince Myshkin/OC]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude.

Seven musicians – seven scoundrels – seven devils - broke the weary, calm evening atmosphere of the Moscowian tavern. Folks seemed to be particularly keen that night; for all of the booths were sold out and the usually peaceful little pub oozed of fine vodka, shchi and unfaltering sweat. There was no real reason for such a large number to occur in there this fair night; it was one of these occasions when happenings take place suddenly, on some violent whim, and there is nothing that could be done for these happenings to be halted. Though it wasn't like many would protest against this; unless, of course, they were among the few of the unfortunate who were told that there is no room for them to be placed in and left dejected outside in the cold, rather ireful and spitting phrases too unsavory for our sensitive ears.

Kopecks and rubles were thrown all around; it seemed to be a fruitful serendipity for the lively group of musicians, for they usually wouldn't get a bent penny for the tired singing of their torn, worn-out voices and the inaccurate chords of their senescent instruments – three balalaikas and chimes, with which they performed quite gracefully, as if they were in a grand opera house.

Thankfully for them, drunken folks only wanted noise and not art, so their income for the evening grew by the second. Soon enough, they too enjoined the drunkards in their vices, immediately wasting up all that that they had earned for a decent amount of drinks and, in scarcer cases, meals. Because that's what you do when you've got dibs – it is not there to dwell inanimately in your pocket; it too has a soul, a soul with which we had gifted it; and so it deserves to meet new owners, to travel the world from one pocket to another. Else, you are a selfish, selfish individual!

But ah, let us come back to the booths; traditionally, when one takes possession of a booth, they spend their time in there until dawn (if their financial stance, of course, doesn't chase them out earlier), and there is not a single force in the universe that could make them share the booth with someone else. When people are used to being drunk, out of fear of confession or ideating anything that might do them harm or which they may regret in the future, they avoid company. At least Zarya Romanovna did. She had always been highly cautious in the matter. She felt the wine ravage her with every bit of her being as it slipped down her throat, and she'd at once brim her cup again and repeat the act. Over and over, through the course of the entire night.

Ah, we've mentioned her now; Zarya Romanovna Orlovskaya was a regular at pubs; many an owner knew her quite well as a passionate alcoholic, which appeared to be the girl's only sin from which she couldn't seem to stray away (alcohol being mentioned, it and water, aside from her own spit that is, seemed to be the only fluids that had ever managed to slide down her throat; and rather literally so). Unlike many other women who found themselves without money and other services the people of today required, Zarya never sold herself off to men; she never stole, nor gambled, nor was she ever a beggar. All of her funds she earned justly and through honest work (usually she ran errands for nobles and officials of wealthier status; and when not running errands, Zarya worked as a maid, cleaning households, handling gardens and walking pets of avaricious and lazy English and French countesses; all for just a few kopecks!), and she kept them safely in her small, linen sack, tied up by a short piece of rope. During the day, she'd labor until her spine fractures; and at night, all she did was drink.

Additionally, Zarya Romanovna never had many friends, nor did she yearn for them either; she never did anything worth remembering, never strove for anything high-minded, she never had dreams. She lived from today until tomorrow, never planning ahead and never thinking of changing the fixed routine on which she'd embark every day for the last several years.

The tip of her lip raised as she brought her glass up to her lips; it seemed as though only yesterday she was a skinny, ignorant little brat, wandering aimlessly around Moscow, hungry and without a single clue as to how she could survive. From the bottom of the bottom, to a drunkard; but still her soul didn't shift.

Sighing, Zarya went for the door of the booth; she had emptied her second bottle for the evening, and she had just about enough kopecks to afford herself one more. Just one; but Zarya intended to enjoy it; oh, she had a heavenly zest in mind, as if it would be her last beverage in this lifetime. Only this time around, she'd order a flask of vodka; just a flask, because it was more expensive than wine. As she kept the door ajar and waited impatiently for the waiter to return, she saw him accompanied by another man; he was of darker tone, wrapped up in a threadbare jerkin and sleazy leather boots. His messy, charcoal locks spurted all around, and his eyes gleamed with a mysterious appeal.

"Orlovskaya!" the waiter would address her as he handed her the flask, "This sir must inevitably drink and relax in our tavern tonight. Since the other booths are taken, I entrust you to let him drink here."

Zarya frowned, not hiding her dissatisfaction with this treatment.

"You disappoint me, Igor Gavrlilovich; how much did he have to waste to buy your favor? Certainly two to three rubles would be enough for you to sell your soul to the demons."

Igor Gavrilovich thus reddened at these words; fixing his stained apron, he muttered, "I'll take that as a  _yes_ , Orlovskaya…" and pushed Zarya's, it seemed, fated new companion into the booth.

She was vexed.

"Bastard…" she scoffed, sitting back onto her chair and crossing her arms. She angrily threw the flask on the table. Thus enjoining her (without an invitation from her behalf), the newcomer made a remark on the flask's strength and failure to break.

"You seem like a feisty woman," he smiled, licking his lips as he observed the flask. Zarya turned her head away from him, watching him timidly with the brink of her eye.

"And you seem like a scoundrel, one in a million, all similar to you," she spat contemptuously. As his hand went for the flask, she outpaced him; he drew a slight smile as he saw a tint of vigor shimmer in her eyes for a moment.

"Did you really think I'd give you my bloodily-earned delight for free, scoundrel?" she mocked, a radiant smirk present on her face, "Ha-ha! You must be an idiot."

Thus the unknown sir gave himself to laughter as well.

"How much?" he questioned, now thoroughly amused. Zarya thus received this inquiry with a snicker.

"It ain't for sale, bachushka."

The man furrowed his brows.

"Everything has a price; even lives," he reasoned, strangling on a sly smile, "What is it that your heart desires? Ten more flasks? Twenty? Or perhaps…The warmth of another?"

Zarya burst out laughing at this  _open_  remark.

"You disgust me," she acclaimed, "And no, none of these offers interest me one bit. Even  _I_ know when I've had enough and what I do not need."

The man shrugged, but he wasn't giving up yet.

"But are you quite sure?" he importuned, "There is a first time for everything-"

"I said  _no_ ," she cut him off, slowly becoming unnerved, "Listen, scoundrel; for ten kopecks, I'll give you one glass – just  _one_  – and then, I expect to see you out of my sight."

The man grimaced protest at this.

"Just one? That's a rather high price for only one glass."

Zarya only smiled gently, however, as she pressed the flask against her chest.

"Take it or leave it, bachushka; 'tis my only bid, the best one I can make."

He smiled at her, soon letting out a few defeated chuckles as his hand reached into the insides of his jerkin.

"Parfyon Semyonovich Rogozhin," he introduced as he handed her ten rusty coins, "With whom do I have the honor? Orlovskaya?"

Zarya had heard that name; her orbs widened as she now studied her companion more closely. Oh yes, that name had been tainted, and with many a ludicrous affair. But Zarya decided she would keep this to herself for the time being.

"Zarya Romanovna Orlovskaya, da," she replied, taking the only glass they had and filling it up, "A privilege to make your acquaintance, Parfyon Semyonovich."

Rogozhin smirked at her sudden change of tone.

"What, you got scared of Rogozhin?" he laughed wholeheartedly, "Don't fret; the rumors must make me out into an unreasonable beast. Pests! I spit on them!"

And thus, he turned his head to the right and spit on the wooden parquet, as if it were "them". Zarya smiled hospitably.

"I…I'm glad they're false, then," she added, handing him the glass. He took it, smuggled it straight out of her fingers' grip, and swallowed down, like an animal who had not tasted a drop of liquid in days.

"Little, but worthwhile," he commented upon finishing, wiping his lips with his sleeve, "Ah, I am exhilarated!"

"That is quite pleasing to hear, Parfyon Semyonovich," Zarya remarked politely, sipping more vodka into the cup. She wouldn't dare chase him out at this point; not when she found out who he is.

Rogozhin hummed.

"Don't be so solemn, Zarya Romanovna," he mocked, a vicious smile on his features, "I will not kill you."

Zarya felt a jolt race down her spine. Daunted and pale, she left the flask of vodka at once, quickly grabbing the glass and drinking up. Formidable notions streamed through her mind as she wasn't exactly in a mood to become a madman's victim, nor befriend one tonight. She should've made a run for it the moment he'd named himself, she fretted, inwardly fuming at herself.

Emptying the glass, she sprang up from her chair and dropped it; it met the ground, its pieces clattering all over the floor, and its structure lost into thin air.

"I am done," she announced matter-of-factly, "I must leave you now. A pleasure to have met you, Parfyon Semyonovich."

Thus uttering this, Zarya immediately went for the door, not wanting to spare a second longer with the merchant son. His impetuous laughter, however, managed to cease her.

"Wait!" he mused, "Do not leave me just yet, Zarya Romanovna! I have a bargain!"

She knitted her brows as she peered back at him, although she'd already contemplated to decline this bargain, whatever it might be.

"I'm listening."

Rogozhin stood up, making a few steps toward her, a small smile lingering on his lips; when he finally faced her up front, he'd put his hands on both of her arms, right above the elbows, and he'd embrace her hadn't it been for Zarya's overwhelming need for caution in that moment. She stepped away from him in an instant, her orbs widened as if she had just seen a ghost.

"I told you not to be scared of me!" he exclaimed gleefully, now spreading his arms (and along with his arms his jerkin went likewise, making him look like an oversized bat).

Zarya waited in silence, frightfully still.

"D'you want to hear my bargain or not, Zarya Romanovna?" he barked; he was drunk, obviously, so Zarya knew that she had to maintain herself coldly.

"Hearing it won't do any harm, I suppose," she strained caustically, as Rogozhin nodded.

"Yes, yes, that's a valid one," he endorsed. He would then turn around and sit back into his chair, burying his head into his palms, and repeatedly running his long, slender fingers through his dark hair. Beads of sweat raced down his jaw as he'd finally raised his head, fixating his glance upon Zarya.

"You've certainly heard of my sins; no, I do not run from them!" he began robustly, "I am well-aware of them, and I embrace them with all of their calamity; the Lord is my witness. For truly, a man's sins will be measured once he is up there, among Them, and there is no reason to hide from your sins, as such. Do you not agree, Zarya Romanovna?"

The girl frowned.

"I fail to see a bargain in that, with all due respect, Parfyon Semyonovich," she remarked, making a tired yawn, "If you could only hurry yourself up just a little bit-"

This made Rogozhin jump toward her as if he was scalded.

"Yes, you see," he breathed, licking his already dried lips again, "You see, I am – alone, with little allies to my side. Almost none, to be quite frank with you," he ran his fingers through his hair again, beginning to perspire (in one moment, Zarya thought him ill) "And the oddity of running into the right people at the right time is…Is a blessing, actually."

He chuckled, placing his hands on his hips, attempting to sound confident.

"I need munitions to fight my solitude, Zarya Romanovna," he asserted, as if he was preaching of something very important, "And a faithful servant – no, I've phrased it badly, forgive me – a faithful  _friend_ , who could lend me a hand when I so ask."

The girl crossed her arms, observing Rogozhin as if he was something awful, so foolish and disgusting; yet she found his tone inveigling.

"I do not care for your solitude nor your friendship, Parfyon Semyonovich," she spoke rather dully, "But – I run errands for the elite all around the city. That is how I make myself a living, you see (well, most of the time). Thus, if you need to run any, I could-"

"But certainly!" Rogozhin interrupted her with a sincere grin to his cry, "Da, da, Zarya Romanovna! Errands, of course, I run them all the time!"

Zarya waited for the wave of excitement to lower down so he could speak normally again.

"There, I want you to run an errand for me, an important errand!" he demanded, but Zarya didn't seem as pleased with herself; caution dictated that she should've run from this man when she had the chance, and instead she offered herself up as easy come, easy go. Though in the end, Zarya sighed, this'd earn her a few more kopecks; surely, he can't have anything  _that_  awful in mind, and thus, Zarya wasn't squeamish about anyone's money, so it clicked.

"You must pay, Parfyon-"

"Oh, I'll pay, I will pay!" he pledged like his life depended upon it, "I will pay-…A hundred rubles!"

The girl was rendered speechless.

"H-How much?"

"A hundred!" he repeated, indulged as he watched Zarya's confused expression.

But she'd collect herself quickly; that amount of money would not only provide drink and meals to her heart's desire, but she could also afford a shelter, a decent roof above her head (and not just a cold, cramped, dirty little flat in which she resided at the moment), for the first time in so many years! Declining was not an option at this point.

"Think of it as already done, sir," she bowed, impelling Rogozhin to laugh out yet again. He tapped her shoulder as he himself went for the door now.

"Trust me, Zarya Romanovna, trust me!" he yelled, "A hundred rubles will be yours, yours and yours alone! Be certain of it! Believe Rogozhin!"

In a few minutes, they'd left the booth, and then the tavern itself, walking along with one another as they made their way through the dark, snowy Moscowian street. A smile danced on Rogozhin's lips as he led Zarya onward, struggling with upholding another fit of laughter that had threatened to overtake him. Zarya, of course, would not notice this, as three digits played before her eyes as if they were diamonds.

Oh, if only she knew how much more this errand would cost her, Zarya would spit right in our merchant's face, spit on this entire affair, the starry sky above them and leave! But we shall get to it all – presently, of course.


	2. I.

The day had begun a bit abruptly for prince Lev Nikolayevich that morning (but oh, there was no place for surprise at this point, for almost every day for him was abrupt and concerning!). From the earliest hour, since he had been awake, he found himself once again overwhelmed by a great number of visitors – let us assume, all important invitees, though again, we use the term  _invitees_ , because they invite their own selves to his doorstep in Moscow for the most part. If anything, out of all things ordinary and incidental alike, he found most strange their ability to discover him so quickly, even though it had been only a couple of weeks since he moved from Petersburg here, and his wasn't that a noisy arrival whatsoever. Most definitely, it was his inheritance left to him by his noble, deceased aunt – rumored to be enormously wealthy and legally gained (a rather rare trait for inheritances nowadays) – that attracted upon itself quite a bit of heed. The prince wasn't lacking in visitors and, for the first time since his return from Schneider's clinic home, he'd felt different – he felt wanted, loved, cared for. Never, not once did he turn down any of the suspicious offers and claims his visitors regularly pledged for. Each propose he handled gracefully and with most honor, therefore postponing his travel back to Petersburg and the Yepanchins, for, it would appear later, a whole of six months.

During this time, the prince's health, along with his mood, had dramatically fixed – the presence of people and a new environment around him certainly soothed his troubled mind. Yes, it still appeared to be troubled, however, and even more than that – it tore his heart apart.

He couldn't seem to get his mind off of the events of that horrible night…Oh how he wished to forget the poor, wrecked heart of that unhappy, unhappy woman! How she broke his whole being into a million, littlest of pieces whenever she became the prisoner of her mind, her dangerous whim. She evoked in him nothing but sorrow and pity, thus compassion for how low she had allowed herself to sink; it was most painful a task for him to watch her as she slammed down his door and ran inside of his house, crashing into his embrace – her beautiful wedding dress the shade of snow.

And so they would stay, for hours and hours on end, steady, in the sole company of their incoherent breathing.

"Lev Nikolayevich!" she pleaded, "My dearest, my most loyal…! Oh, I consent with your will, dearest, I had left that unholy being of a man for good! You've my most honest word!" And so she repeated these words, over and over, as if she was in a state of delirium; she uttered them kindly, happily; it seemed, from the very center of her heart.

It rained that day – no, it rained that entire unhappy month! And it would sting him, the prince, because he was unable to hold her as a lover; only a victim – for he was convinced, if not absolutely certain, that she suffered from her illness more than anyone else.

Yes, he was certain of it, as much as he was certain that his merchant compatriot detested him more than the devil himself at this point. It only resulted in more guilt to be brought upon the prince's widespread, soft soul. Although, even with the circumstances being as they were, he never lost his temper – no, the prince was patient; he had managed to savor the nobility and fondness of his conduct, as much as that was possible, without him going uttermost insane.

As for her, her misery only grew, day by day, as the cold, quaking stream of unpleasant knowledge showered her, making her more insecure and temperamental – day by day. But she wasn't as patient as her prince; rather, she had gotten tired, separating herself from him in a different house, and afterwards a different block, and finally - after a month of their life together, she finally decided to wave goodbye to him once again, most of all tormenting her own self, for she was "well aware of who I am and where my place is. Farewell, Lev Nikolayevich! I should've known better than this, I should never have come to you in the first place. I will not marry you, nor will I bother you ever again. Oh, I'm going, I'm leaving you forever!"

She was ignorant of his endless cries, pleas and apologies; ignorant of his cringing, trembling figure as he begged her, as if he was begging the Lord Himself, for forgiveness, for understanding, for grace. But she gave him none, and made an onslaught forward to her whim's desire.

But the prince would not lose his head; on the contrary, he made an initiative to visit his fellow merchant here, in Moscow, for he knew that they were living together in a house before she had run off to the prince (a part of him wished for her to be back with him again, just so he could be sure that she was somewhere safe and known for now, but instead, there appeared not to be a trace of her for a good few days).

The prince was finally compulsed into paying Rogozhin a visit on the third day of her defection from his home, and he didn't hesitate to converse with the man, even though he knew that the visit may be endangering and somewhat glum, for the subject was a heartache for the both of them.

However, a boost of joy filled the prince as he found Rogozhin more than ready to embrace the subject – he appeared to be quite compassionate likewise. Though in him the prince caught a slight tinge of derision toward their situation.

"Chances are," said he on more than one of their occasional meetings, with a vicious snicker equally playing in his voice, "that that madwoman will fool us both in the end, and we'll serve as nothing but dolls (like those in a comedy; do you like comedies, Lev Nikolayevich?), our purpose being to beguile the laughing crowd! Ah, that woman will undoubtedly turn me to sin, and bring my downfall – my soul is in accordance with this! Remember Rogozhin's words!"

The prince could only gasp and goggle his eyes at the strange man before him, stuttering and breathing heavily, as he equally shook and perspired. He too was tired, but he could not allow himself to rest at all; and thus, as time went by, he received less and less visitors; less people took interest in his story, and that dreadful, murderous feeling of solitude carefully coiled straight back into his soul, dirtying it and creating chaos of its innocent purity, as he had locked himself among the four, lonely walls.

Which could be why he – he called it  _audacity_  – allowed himself to write a letter to Aglaya Yepanchina: out of solitude and longing (though he could well perceive in his heart that that dear child would only laugh at his pledges of love and friendship in that silly, silly letter – as silly and suggestive as himself). But oh, he liked to imagine that scene; he liked to fantasize how Kolya Ivolgin (whom he had kindly requested to play the courier's part) runs into the Yepanchin estate in Petersburg, begs for the audience of "Aglaya Ivanovna, general Ivan Fyodorovich's most fair and charming daughter", and delivers her the letter. She then opens it – oh, the noble excitement and confusion drawn all over her beautiful face in that moment! – and reads, and then laughs! Oh, her laughter is light, resonant, childish! The prince would laugh alongside her, sometimes, as he sat alone in his Moscowian prison (yes, a prison; he was imprisoned, torn, torn!).

Nevertheless, time marched on; soon enough, the prince had become somewhat outgoing again (probably due to the fact that his occasional meetings with Rogozhin were cut abruptly and it would take awhile before he'd hear of that strange, alien man again), and he even attended a few plays in the Moscowian theater and enjoyed many of Moscow's renowned landmarks.

It was a particularly sunny, spring afternoon; he had been walking for awhile and finally decided to take a break at the A. Square, seating himself on a nearby bench, with his glance pointed skywards; he felt peaceful, and hoped to stay so for the time being, at least enough for him to return to Petersburg content.

As he sat, silent and in thought, he caught a glimpse of a child that ran, it seemed, a horse hair away from his figure; he fixed his gaze intently upon the running child – it was a boy, about a good ten years of age, swarthy and of weak constitution. His light, thin figure leaped onward with great speed, as he was about to swiftly merge within the oncoming crowd. In his small hand he held a black hat.

It was only then that the prince realized that his hat had been missing; in a split second, it was bestowed to him, as he sat still, eyeing the little thief – sorrowfully, rather than falling into rampage.

"The poor thing must be hungry," he pondered, squeezing his lips, "Perhaps he manages to sell it for a decent amount."

And the prince had already parted with his accessory for good; he sat a few more minutes before finally springing upward again, now hatless and with a feeling of a light, throbbing sensation on his ears caused by the whistling of the chilly Moscowian breeze.

Just as he took a couple of steps, he'd heard a few loud yells coming from behind; he turned quickly – a young woman in her twenties, most notably pale and vested in an azure, light and somewhat dirtied gown, approached him with hasty steps. He also noticed that she held his hat in one hand, and in the other – the ear of the young boy that had stolen the latter object a few minutes back, thus pulling him right beside herself.

"Sir!" she huffed, refusing to either stop or slow down before she had thoroughly reached the prince (he noted that she wasn't of some remarkable beauty, but she wasn't ugly either; her hair was of medium length and of a dark auburn tone, and her orbs were tinted bright green).

"Dear sir, I am terribly sorry, my brother-" she began apologetically, but she quickly turned about and pulled the boy by the hair, thus making him whimper in pain, "It is not  _I_  who should be apologizing!" she scolded, pulling further, with a terribly rigid appeal, "Maxim Romanovich, I want you to apologize for stealing the sir's hat, this instant!"

The boy frowned.

"But sister, I thought…!" he bickered, but she interrupted him by another cruel pull of his hair.

"I said, this  _instant_!" she commanded with scorn, alike to a military general who patronizes his recruits; but the prince would try and mend the situation.

"Fair lady," he addressed, "I am terribly sorry, my hat had caused you trouble – please, do not punish your dear brother! I am certain that he indispensibly bore in him the most benign intentions!"

The maiden looked at him as though he had just fallen down from the firmament.

"What?" she questioned, blinking in a thoughtful manner a few times (her hand still grasping her brother's ear) "Shouldn't you be mad at us? Shouldn't you be threatening us with punishment, with travail, and things of the sort?"

The prince simply chuckled her remarks off.

"No no, there is no need to do that," he smiled, adding, "At the end of the day, it is only an old, slipshod black hat! Don't worry yourselves!"

The girl released her brother and her jaw dropped in surprise; the prince found her incredibly diverting, as he regardfully fondled the boy's dark hair, alike to the strands of his older sister. She eyed him carefully for a period; she found his cerulean stare to be so calm, yet very earnest and confident in his words. He was an ethereal, if not a wholly alien being to her; she had never experienced such mercy from the behalf of respected gentlemen and practically anyone who held the slightest title of nobleness - it was rarity at its finest.

"…S-Spasibo," she would reply after a few seconds, "We are most thankful to you…Ah, what would be your name, kind and illustrious sir?"

"Prince Lev Nikolayevich Myshkin," the prince answered gleefully, taking much happiness in each moment spent with the two siblings, "And could I have yours, madam?"

She smiled; yet she had to work hard for the smile not to look like a fake spasm. Numerous thoughts raced through her mind as she slightly crouched down to her brother, whispering, "Go home and drop the latch." She observed the boy obediently make his way downtown. Then, with that same falsely smile adorning her features, she brought herself back to the prince.

"Zarya Romanovna Orlovskaya," she chanted sweetly, stretching her hand toward his, "A pleasure to make your prestigious acquaintance, prince Myshkin."

They hook hands and bowed to each other, Zarya bending her waist and the prince only nodding to her politely.

"I cannot express my gratitude for the warmth that evinced out of your kind heart," she began, smiling contently as she said that (all in all, the prince noted a great change in her behavior, and it also changed in a matter of moments). They both sat down on the same bench on which the prince was resting before being usurped by the acts of young Maxim.

"Needless to say," Zarya continued, tightly holding the prince's hand, "You have pleased me plenty; you, dear prince, must not be entirely Russian (do not take my words as an insult! I am but presenting my opinion); I have in me a strong feeling that you do not originate from these parts…Or…Rather, you were brought up elsewhere, but not here! Am I right?"

"Oh, not quite!" he dissuaded, "Although…Ah, but you are not that far from the truth. I had returned from Switzerland several months ago; I was abroad for four years."

"May I know to what cause?"

The prince smiled a smile that could easily soften even the most arrant scoundrel; he sighed meekly, averting his gaze to the ground.

"I was sent there to Doctor Schneider due to my illness," he explained patiently, "I am back now, although I am still ill…"

Zarya eyed him warily, with qualm shimmering in her verdant orb; there was certainly no doubt to it now, she contemplated.

_You will easily recognize him_.

"That is quite…Quite unsavory, prince," she deduced somewhat shrewdly, to which the prince lively rushed to correct her.

_He is blond, pale, lean, of medium height; very modestly dressed for his title._

"No-no-no!" he yelled, "No, you are mistaken, Zarya Romanovna; even though I had not been healed thoroughly, I am not unable to be a happy man! We need but little to be happy, oh yes! I deem that the happiest thing that could ever occur to someone is the realization that happiness is right here, right under your nose, and that it shouldn't be denied but embraced! It is a true happiness when one is aware exactly  _how_  to be happy!"

Zarya burst into a compelling fit of laughter at this play of words.

_His eyes are the color of heavens, and his smile the most honest thing you will ever see in this forsaken world._

"Oh my, what lovely philosophy, dear prince!" she praised, adding teasingly, "Do you happen to teach your views somewhere, anywhere at all? I'd love to listen to you, and very much so!"

She adored the shrewdness with which she filled the entire question, hoping that it'll ward off all suspicion and give her what she wants. And much to her triumph, the prince didn't seem to notice a thing.

_And his character, oh…In one moment, he'll make you feel as though you're conversing with an educated, scrutinizing young man..._

"Oho, you flatter me, Zarya!" the prince chuckled, as though he was a little ashamed in that moment (as those with the virtue of moderation usually feel whenever they receive eulogy) "No, I do not teach anywhere, but if you are so inclined, I invite you to my home here. Yes, I'd love to have you as my guest."

An oafish, faint smile was drawn upon the prince's face – this would only prompt Zarya to recall Rogozhin's words with greater, greasier contempt.

_…And in the next one, he'll make you want to punch off that idiotic, eternally unswerving smile of his straight off of that pale little face. All in all, you cannot miss him, an idiot like that is one of a kind!_

Zarya smiled to herself.

"My dear prince Myshkin," she began again, with a mildly exasperated tone, "If-if you're entirely sure, then…Then I shall come, as is according to your lofty volition."

"Yes!" he laughed, tightening his grip around Zarya's wrist, "Yes, come, whenever you please! Bring Maxim Romanovich with you likewise. You will be my honorary guests."

_What a fool_ , Zarya contemplated as she approvingly nodded at prince's every word,  _This'll be way easier than I imagined. Your money will soon be all mine, Parfyon Semyonovich!_

"When do you propose we should come, prince?" she asked, a giant grin playing on her face. The prince had greatly fallen into fire at this point, and his answers and manner became more and more ardent and ridiculous due to that.

"Oh, tomorrow, you must essentially come tomorrow!" he spoke, crazed of glee, "Tomorrow afternoon, at the fifth hour from midday, yes! You must honor me with your attendance, Zarya Romanovna, and the attendance of your brother."

They stood up, still firmly holding one another's hand.

"We will certainly come visit you, reputable prince Myshkin. You've honored us beyond recognition…"

After exchanging addresses, the two would finally part ways, and do so very cordially; the prince directed himself to one side, and Zarya went the opposite way.


	3. II.

Zarya Romanovna had spent the entire morning and a better part of the afternoon in front of the mirror (which, be it mentioned, she had borrowed from a neighbor, Tatiana Fyodorovna, a kind-hearted lady who lived with her husband in the room next to Zarya's; as poor as the rest of their building). Later, as she looked back at the insane amount of time she had wasted attempting to create a beggar into a duchess, she laughed wholeheartedly, yet inside she was earnest. She could not seem to understand why, but something rather contrived, something unknown and grave, tended to illuminate her being that entire day and it remained hidden there during the evening too. It would appear again many times in the months to follow, always more intense than before and clouding her reasoning through and through. She never seemed to be able to eradicate it for good. But she was yet to experience the feeling in its truer form, and would therefore postpone thinking about it for the time being, burying the thought somewhere far away - perhaps, at the very back of her consciousness.

Needless to say, she was eventually forced to give up her dedicated preparations as the old, dusty clock counted two; though really, the thing had been long out of order, and Zarya knew that she was supposed to add two more hours to the counting to get the correct time. By doing this, she calculated that it was the fourth hour, and finally sprang up from her chair.

She put on a pair of nice red sandals that she had bought a few years back, but never wore in public. She found the occasion appropriate enough for them. As this was done, her eyes mechanically looked for Maxim, who was at the opposite side of the room; upon spotting him there, she relaxed and her expression seemed to become indifferent again.

"I am going out," she began, blindly searching for her hat with solely her fingers, as her appeal began to show some more feeling, and her stare fixated upon Maxim, "I probably won't come back until a late hour, so don't wait for me and have your dinner as usual. Ask M. Tatiana if you find yourself in need of anything."

Deeming that she had done what she was obliged to do, Zarya put on her hat (a small, white cap that made her look like a French bobbysoxer) and gracefully went for the door.

"But…"

She stopped, barely turning to gaze at her little brother.

"Da?"

She eyed him more closely; his eyes burned with some secretive, buried zeal and feeling that he was trying to suppress, but hadn't accomplished much of it. His orbs studied her from head to toe and back up again. She deduced that something was wrong.

"What? Are you angry because I'm going alone, without bringing you with me?" Zarya condescended matter-of-factly, as Maxim averted his juvenile head from her to the side.

"No…"

"What is it, then?"

He kept silent for a minute or so, before he'd stood up, though still a safe distance away from his sister.

"You…You are going to that prince, are you not?"

Zarya nodded approvingly.

"Sure I am; what of it?" she retorted, expressing some boredom as she directed herself towards the mirror for the umpteenth time and fixed her locks and apparel.

"I know…I know what you will do…"

She looked back at him now, faintly more interested.

"And pray, what will I do?"

Maxim bit his lip, glancing away again.

"You...I remember when that man, the man in black, came here, and talked…with you…about…"

Zarya knitted her brows impatiently.

"Yes, yes, we're wasting time! What's the point of all this? What do you want?" she bit, earning a frightened look from Maxim. Despite her demeanor towards him always being this scornful, from the earliest of his days, she still seemed to evoke fear in him, and make his little heart tremble like it belonged to a rabbit.

"I…" he stuttered, intertwining his hands nervously, "Your intentions toward that…prince…they're…vile and, and – mean! Because, because, the sir in black, he mentioned that he would k-…And you're helping him! You…!"

And thus Maxim silenced, unable to speak further. His eyes flew from one corner to another, as they repeatedly filled with frightened tears and he shook terribly. Zarya didn't reply him for a good couple of seconds.

"That," she answered calmly, as her dried throat finally gave her a chance to speak, "That is quite out of the realm of your business, Maxim. I cannot guarantee for  _him_ , but for my own part – I can only say that I am doing all that I must so we could lead a better life. Trust me, I am doing this for the two of us, for  _you and I_ , and my cause is anything but cruel. You may believe me wholly, young one."

Before she would leave, Zarya was forced to embrace her quivering brother so he would calm down, and when he was himself enough, she quickly stormed out of the flat and downstairs, onto the street. It was four-thirteen at this point, and she rushed urgently for her next destination.

As she neared the coast of the River Moscow, where the crowd was just beginning to increase, Zarya found it fit to stop. An intent, gloomy pair of eyes carefully sought out each and every of her moves; when she finally caught their stare, they didn't falter; quite the opposite, their heaviness seemed to straighten, to a point where they appeared severe, almost sinister to the onlooker.

Zarya approached the man, a meek smile playing on her face.

"Zdravstuyte, bachushka Parfyon Semyonovich," she greeted Rogozhin, reaching out to him for a handshake. He, however, declined both of her warm greetings; he only weakly nodded at her and focused his stare back down the present street.

"After me," he strained, motioning for Zarya to go a meter or so beside him. They began walking, deathly silent, and Zarya became more and more insecure with each second she'd spend with the man. She suddenly remembered Maxim's words, but subsequently shook her head at them, attempting to think of something else.

"A fine day today, no?" she began, cheerfully eyeing Rogozhin, and then looking up, toward the sky, "Fine weather…"

Really, there wasn't a single cloud in the turquoise firmament above, and the sun shone with its whole, blinding brightness; yet this failed to tackle Rogozhin out of his cold spirits.

And so they'd remain in complete, arid silence for a few more minutes. Ultimately, they crossed a bridge to the other side and went over a couple of squares, reaching an intersection at some point. They marched to the left.

There, three houses away from the corner, a carriage awaited. Rogozhin sifted the ambience a few more times before vigilantly turning to Zarya, with a look that gleamed with the mixture of worry and annoyance, all tied up with a resenting smirk that kept equally stretching on his features. Yet he said nothing.

They boarded the carriage. Zarya figured that the estate would be outside of the city's tumult, and she wasn't wrong; the trip took only ten minutes at best though, and they would soon be welcomed by springtime greenery and the smell of wildflowers increasing and invading nostrils all around.

Halfway towards the notable, medium-sized house that stood in the middle of the surrounding yard, Rogozhin halted; his eyes fixated upon Zarya, and he enclosed to her without any sense of politeness nor manner. His breath shook and his eyes were ablaze as he spoke.

"You know the agreement well," he whispered (although they were alone), his nose mere inches apart from Zarya's, "do not disappoint me. However much time you need to spend (and you should spare no expense), come to me and report. I'll be at home all night and my door will be left unlocked. I'll also leave the carriage here, so you may return…As for all this…I want to know everything, his tiniest activity and thought. Pay good attention to his face when he speaks, and don't mind the fervor, it's all part of it. Try to match his liveliness, catch up with him…"

He halted talking for a moment, licking his lips and lowering his head, only this time around, a shrewd, yet doleful smile widened in replacement of the previous resenting one.

"If he makes the slightest mention of her…" he murmured, becoming pale, but eventually left the sentence unfinished. Zarya lingered on a few more seconds, until she'd finally nod in understanding.

"It shall be done," she pledged, adding more earnestly, "And, my payment…When will I receive it?"

"Oho, you ask too much!" Rogozhin laughed, "When I find it fit, ha-ha!"

In that one moment of laughter and bliss, his face seemed lucent, almost childlike, as if he hadn't felt any such relief in a long while, and needless to say, it didn't match the ill shade of his pale skin whatsoever. But his expression swiftly reversed back into its usual form, and Parfyon looked as though he was a tad shamefaced because of this sally.

After exchanging a few more looks, the pair parted in cool silence. As soon as Rogozhin was out of sight, Zarya began to perspire.

She sighed, turning towards the house now; she'd listened a bit (from the stories told by Rogozhin himself) about the wealth and marvel the prince inherited, but now that she could judge with her own eyes, it seemed as nothing too opulent; nearing the house, she noticed a few cracks and much unevenness (mostly of small proportion) here and there (all formed probably due to old age, Zarya deduced), and you could clearly tell from the very first glance that the garden was in great need of tending; otherwise, the whole of it threatened to become a meadow of weeds.

Nevertheless, Zarya had already reached the marvelous stone stairwell that led to the wooden entrance of the house and climbed. At the peak, she halted, stretching her hand out toward the hanging rope and pulling it a few times. To her surprise, the door unhinged almost immediately; before her stood a small, charming old lady, vested in white servant garments; a modest clothing, although Zarya caught notice of a shimmering object hanging from the woman's neck.

"Good day, whom do you please?" the servant greeted, a hospitable smile drawn at once upon her face. Zarya tried her best to return the kind deed.

"Prince Myshkin," she answered, slightly bowing her head, "I am Zarya Orlovskaya; he invited me to his house yesterday."

"Oh," the old lady wondered, "He is not in at the moment. How strange!"

Genuine concern permeated Zarya's features.

"Is...Is that so?"

"Yes! I imagine that he had gone to one of these outrageous goons that he used to receive daily! Oh, the scoundrels, they prey upon the mistress's wealth, oh, the monsters!" the lady's cheeks became rosy, "Or, rather, shouldn't he be at Princess Byelokonska's for tea at this hour?...Well, would you like to come in and wait for him? I suspect he should retire home very soon."

Before Zarya could express an unfathomable gratitude and wholeheartedly accept the thoughtful offer, another figure emerged at the bottom of the stairs. Zarya turned to examine him the moment she took notice of his presence; she was startled at the sight!

"Oh, Lev Nikolayevich, darling!" welcomed the servant lady, "We were just conversing about you!"

"Hello, Anfisa Prokhorovna," the prince smiled and took her hand politely. He would then direct his entire heed to the guest.

"Oh, Zarya Romanovna!" he cried, going to shake her hand, "How delightful, delightful indeed!"

Zarya chuckled as he was jolly enough to even pull her into a friendly, joyous embrace.

Within a minute, Anfisa locked the door behind them; before he would lead Zarya to the upper floor, the prince asked for two cups of tea to be brought to them. Casting another charming smile his way, docile Anfisa ran into the kitchen.

"A kind soul, she worked for my aunt for a great number of years," told the prince, adding, "I apologize for my tardiness - here, this is the main lobby; come, make yourself at home!"

"Oh, it is quite alright," Zarya assured him, seating herself on the armchair thither which the prince had pointed, "The tardiness, I meant to say; I would've waited for your arrival 'til the evening, outside even, if I had to!"

As he took off his (Zarya could tell they were newly-bought) cloak and hat, his gaze fell upon her.

"Truly so?" he uttered, defeated by these words. Very cunningly, she stood up and placed her hand over her chest.

"I could vouch for it, if need be."

The prince lowered his pale face, although another smile went about from it in mere seconds; he seemed to be very absent-minded today, as though he was beside himself about something. Beads of sweat emerged from his forehead, but he would take a napkin out of his pocket and wipe them all off.

He enjoined Zarya, seating himself on a chair right next to her. He stood up again immediately, however, as he suddenly found the room dark and stifling. He opened the door to the balcony, and a tender, chilly spring breeze broke inside along with the rays of light.

"Ah, what a marvelous day!..." he wondered loudly, staring through the window for a whole minute. All in all, he was a diverting sight to Zarya, who would, in other circumstances, giggle at such an eccentric.

"Yes, I took notice of it myself," Zarya confirmed. This drew the prince's attention back upon her.

"Ah, certainly, certainly - you did? That is very noble of you, Zarya. That is a beautiful rarity, indeed! Oh, just imagine, I've conversed with many of ours since I came back from Switzerland, and none seemed to take the slightest glimpse of the magnificent world around them! Tragic, tragic…" he inspected the floor for a moment, then raised his head up again, "Ah, that's right, what of Maxim Romanovich? I thought he'd come with you."

"O-Oh," Zarya was caught unprepared for this sort of question, for she was, like it or not, becoming captivated by the prince's previous speech, "Oh, he is...Ill. Fever, what to say..."

"Oh dear, how saddening!" cried the prince in sincere ail, "You've left him home alone then? You certainly must go back immediately! Here, allow me to escort you…!"

And so he was up on his feet yet again; he was already half-dressed when Zarya realized that he was every bit serious about the aforementioned deed; she was therefore compelled to catch up with him and explain that she had left Maxim in the custody of Tatiana Fyodorovna, a neighbor, and that she'll take good care of him. In that instance, Anfisa arrived with the tea, and with its arrival, the prince finally quieted down.

"Ah, how do you like the estate, Zarya?" inquired the prince as he took one of the cups and placed it in front of her, "I've only just begun acquiring what I need to embellish it..."

"Oh, it is already quite magnificent, quite noble!" Zarya praised, "Though with you in charge of it, I am sure it may well become heaven on earth."

The exaggerations made the prince laugh lightheartedly; Zarya thought she'd humored him well. Her hand picked up the still-smoking cup of tea and, as she's never drank tea before (and was distracted in that moment), she was unsuspecting of the painful sensation the smoldering substance would evoke on her tongue and all over her mouth upon taking a sip.

An unkind expletive left her lips as she frantically dropped the cup to the floor and covered her mouth with her hands, moaning in pain. Due to wincing when she made contact with the beverage, some of it managed to spill onto the skin around her lips likewise; some even got on her clothes. A minute later, she noticed the prince ran back inside the room with a wet rag in hand. He gently removed one hand, and then the other, and would begin cooling the burnt skin down. He performed the deed diligently and thoughtfully, taking much trouble to avoid pressing the rag too hard against Zarya's face, or doing anything that would make his guest feel uncomfortable.

Although she enjoyed the algid feeling that was around her lips now, it was unnecessary to say that Zarya's cheeks were redder than her shoes at this point. She had the greatest urge to interrupt the prince and begin apologizing like her life depended upon it; she wished to say that she was a worthless scoundrel, unholy, completely base compared to him, dependent of bottles of wine and vodka; how she had betrayed him, how he shouldn't be doing what he's doing…But she hadn't the heart.

"There, it should be better now," the prince remarked as he was finished; he grinned at Zarya's befuddled face, "Oh my, look at you! Lighten up, lighten up! It is all better now, believe God!"

He embraced her, which ultimately made her even more confused.

"You've never drunk tea before, correct?" he inquired, albeit not the least bit condescending due to that fact, stepping away and placing the rag on a commode by the wall.

Zarya lowered her head in harsh shame. She would even cover her face with her hands. This inflicted much qualm upon the prince when he turned and took notice of it.

"But no, what's the matter, Zarya?" he walked back to her, putting his hand on her shoulder; he also crouched a bit so his own could meet the level of her face, "Zarya - Zaryechka! Oh, for the sake of the holy Lord, do not despair, do not! You've no reason to! Here, allow me - allow me to tell you of a thing that happened to me while I was still with my professor Schneider, two years ago; a happening of similar character, of course, undeserving of any accolade. (He took her hand in his, and held it firmly.)

"Namely, while we were in Berlin, in Germany - or, more precisely, we made a stop at a village very near to that city - Schneider had some public affairs to take care of, and so he left me in the house of his friend, a retired soldier, who, upon retirement, opened up a business of his own, and so became rich; Otto was his name. Otto received me, and had done so very politely, even though he knew I was ill…A remarkable man, that Otto; he was very dedicated to the Lord and went to church daily; I remember there was one, very modest and expired, just near his house…Oh, you cannot imagine how benign his soul was, oh, quite a rare occurrence in their world! He was just seeing a few visitors off when he discovered me on his doorstep...I saw their faces: all were most splendidly humored and there was a laughing smile on each face, but Otto's face was stern and perfectly poised…

"Ah, to the point, forgive me! - He received me, very kindly and applying great caution each time he would utter a sentence. Strangely, Schneider was on the leave more than he'd accounted, and as much as I'd promised myself not to do anything unworthy until his return, I saw - oh, imagine, imagine! - I saw, on the wall, hanging just opposite to the mural icon of the Virgin and her Son - a painting, a horrible, horrible painting! Though it still may be only a painting, but it was - terrifying! It tore the soul apart, in the literal meaning of that phrase!

"Had you the opportunity to hear of Hans Holbein? The painting was his piece, and it was a haunting sight; it displayed the image of the dead Christ, who had just been taken down from the cross, full of bloodied scars and dark bruises. The paleness, the dry, ghost-like skeleton of a body, curls of his dirtied, lifeless hair - Lord, Lord knows that I had the greatest desire to weep at it, alike when a child weeps at a moving shadow at night, or a demon, a fragment of its imagination; something that it could never explain well with words…

"It is as though I am living through it all over again, right now, in this very moment! Oh, how sad was I, how heartbroken and destroyed…Oh, will you believe me, Zaryushka, will you believe me if I tell you that I wanted to walk up to it and-and, touch it? That dark, devastating ambience that the painting created - like an alluring invitation toward suffering, toward infliction - made me so thirsty, so alive, and I had never experienced such feelings before! In my fantasy, I thought - if I touched it - if-if I placed my two hands upon it - all of that miserable, unfathomable pain, that cruel, unquenchable, everlasting anguish - will, at once, in a jiff, in less than a flicker, shower upon me in its entirety; I will become its vessel instead of Him – and I would at once, in that very moment of passing, achieve Providence! I, an ill, idiotic, mortal individual, the servant of God…!

"Oh, but I am constantly rambling too far from my point - but you will not be angry with me, Zaryushka, I know that you will not!...Allow me now, when I had told you all that had been playing out in my soul in that moment, to tell you of the deed that ensued…Oh, you will most certainly laugh at me, I know it, I know it! But that is quite good, quite good; I want you to smile, smile from the center of your heart! Oh, what joy that would bring me…Ah, I stood up, in that moment, as I am standing up right now. (The prince indeed stood up; Zarya's troubled stare followed him as he walked around the room and spoke; she had been calmed for a long while now and carefully took in each of the prince's words.) Otto had his back turned on me in that moment, so the opportunity seemed nearly perfect. As I got closer to the painting, determined to do what I had decided, I realized that the painting was too high for me to reach! Oh, at first, I was desperate! But a solution quickly emerged: there stood a tiny ladder in the corner of the living room; it consisted of three steps, and Otto mainly used it as a helping ledge for his housework. I took the ladder and, while still unnoticed by Otto, placed it against the commode and climbed the first two steps; both of my hands stretched out - oh, I saw it already, I saw it all, all! - but I could still not reach it properly! I climbed the third step too, I reached - I needed just a little more, my hand was a foot away from the frame! - and  _hop_ , I jumped, and my palms closed around the edgings, the very corners of the painting!

"I could not avert my eyes from it for the longest time! But then, before I knew it…I was on the floor, lying flat on my back, with great pains in both it and my neck, together, with the painting, that had fallen off of the wall and straight onto me. Otto yelled terribly, and helped me up…And in that moment, my professor burst into the room. He scolded me, and then he put the painting back in its place with the help of Otto; only its frame was damaged (perhaps very badly), but everything else seemed fine. I was afraid to look at it, even while we were parting! Oh, I never wish to see it again, and, even if I do run into it at some point - I have an unfaltering presentiment that it'll be for a most vile occasion…"

Running out of breath, the prince seated himself into the chair and wiped his forehead and face with the napkin, while Zarya eyed him as though he was the strangest creature to ever walk the earth; the very same feeling that he gave her yesterday. She tried her best to wipe off the upcoming flood of tears that threatened to descend down her cheeks at any moment - only, they were of a different cause now; the prince's words cut right through her skin, and it was little to say that such passion, such cunning, ready, chaste devotion - crippled, but at the same time, purged her stained soul.

Most of all, she wished to cry, or to proclaim that it was all a farce, an evolved kind of nonsense; but when he cast another gaze at her with his bright, saintly blue eyes - she smiled. She could give him that much.

"Well…For philosophy I came, and-and…Philosophy you gave me! Philosopher! Teacher!" Zarya slightly teased the prince with these remarks, but he would only grin modestly in return.

"Oh my, I have probably bothered you plenty - look, the tea's all cold now! How inhospitable I am, forgive me!"

"Ah, no no, please, leave the tea be," Zarya fumed, standing up, "It is the evening now, and…Maxim…"

She paled, quickly reminiscing something from earlier - something she was supposed to do, by an order, for someone - and she hadn't done anything at all. It struck her like a storm out of a bright sky.

"As you please then, Zarya," the prince accepted.

"Ah, yes, and - allow me to apologize for the cup, I…I will repay it to you, when I get the money-"

"Oh dear, certainly not!" the prince spoke with a beggar's tone, "I've at least fifty of these, you need not repay me anything!"

After a few more minutes of quarrel on the said topic, Zarya was compelled to give up and concede with Lev Nikolayevich. They would then part, and the prince would invite her to his home once again: in a week this time around, since he preached of having much business to take care of all around the city and he would therefore be unavailable for the better part of the day.

As Zarya walked down the dark, lonely lawn, thoughts as black as the night that surrounded her raced through her mind.

"It is  _I_  whom he will undoubtedly murder now, nobody else…!" she pondered with tears in her eyes, entering the carriage and yelling to the coachman, "To Parfyon Rogozhin's house! Fly!"


End file.
